I didn’t feel tired until I saw the rocking chair in front of the fireplace inside the James J. Hill Cabin. I set the plastic tub on the small kitchen table and sat myself in the chair, stretched out and closed my eyes.
It’s not even noon yet, my inner voice reminded me.
“Must be all this fresh country air I’ve been breathing,” I said aloud.
I started rocking up and down until I realized that I was in serious danger of falling asleep.
Can’t have that.
I stopped rocking and sat up—no rest for the weary—and pulled my cell phone from my pocket. I scrolled through my contacts, found the name I was looking for, and tapped the icon. Like most people these days, I didn’t know anyone’s phone numbers except my own and the number for the house in St. Paul where I grew up when I was a kid.
I waited for a few moments until a woman’s voice answered.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Why is it that every time I call, you make it sound like I’m imposing on you?”
“Because you are. I was sitting on the deck, drinking tea, enjoying the morning, and now this.”
“Swear to God, H, if you hadn’t tripled my money in the past eight years, I’d be annoyed.”
“But I did and you love me so what do you want?”
I could picture the scowl on H. B. Sutton’s face. Yet, despite her brusque manner she was actually quite pleasant to be around once you got to know her. Or, I should say, once she got to know you. I blamed her flower children parents for her reticence. They thought they were being cute when they named their daughter Heavenly-love Bambi. Instead, they doomed her to a life of teasing and mockery.
“Try growing up with a name like that, especially while wearing the peasant blouses and skirts my parents dressed me in, the flat sandals,” she once told me. “Try going to high school or college; try getting a job; try being taken seriously by anybody.”
When she reached an age where she could make her own decisions, she stopped using the name. She had once nearly been tossed out of grade school—grade school!—for refusing to answer to Heavenly-love during roll call. Instead she became H.B., or simply “H” to the few people she called friends.
H became an economist because money was one of the few things that everybody took seriously and eventually a financial adviser because she preferred to work alone. She lived on a houseboat moored to a pier on the Mississippi River next to Harriet Island in St. Paul because—well, that I could never quite figure out. Visiting her had always made me feel uncomfortable. Not as uncomfortable as heights or honeybees, still …
H called it “the earthquake effect.” The idea that the deck is constantly shifting beneath our feet; that any unseen wave could make your world bob up and down. Some people find it very disconcerting, she once told me.
“Seriously, McKenzie, what can I do for you?” she asked.
“I want to talk about the hospitality industry.”
“I told you before, the best thing Rickie’s has going for it is its lack of debt…”
“I got that.”
“Assuming customer expectations haven’t dramatically changed, and I don’t think they have…”
“H—”
“The economics will continue to improve as the pandemic fades and restaurants and clubs will regain the footing they lost.”
“I’m not talking about Rickie’s. Nina and I are all in on Rickie’s no matter what, anyway.”
“What are you talking about?” H asked.
“Hotels, resorts.”
“Oh, they’re screwed.”
“Really?”
“I don’t have the latest numbers in front of me, but I’d be willing to bet that over half of the hotels across the country are still at or below the threshold where they can break even and pay back debt. Drive-to leisure destinations with a strong weekend clientele…”
Like Redding Castle, my inner voice told me.
“Are faring better than the corporate-centered properties where attendance at weeklong business conferences constituted a major part of their profits, but all in all, it’s a terrible time to be in that business. We’ve already seen a lot of properties pushed into foreclosure or some type of forced sale and I expect the trend to continue. In fact, I don’t believe the industry will regain its pre-COVID numbers for at least another couple of years. Reuters predicts it’ll take three, maybe four.”
“What’ll it take to stay alive until then?” I asked.
“Like I said—it’s all about debt. In an environment of dramatically lower revenues, high fixed costs, less-than-optimal asset returns, and the need to conserve capital, hospitality organizations will need to determine which areas to prioritize and invest in. They will need to find the right balance between investment and conservation, one that achieves the highest ROI in the near to medium term.”
“I’m not entirely sure what all that means…”
“The people who can keep paying their bills will survive; the ones that can’t will die. McKenzie?”
“H?”
“You’re not thinking of investing in a hotel, are you?”
“If I were, what would you say?”
“As your financial adviser, I would tell you that I don’t recommend adding a hotel to your portfolio at this time. Listen, as with any major disruption like the one we’re seeing in the hospitality industry, there will be opportunities to capitalize if you have the means to do so. At the moment, though, there are just too many unknown variables. Besides, you’ve never been that kind of investor.”
“What about as my friend?”
“As your friend I’d say, Are you outta your damn mind? You’d be better off taking your money to Vegas and betting it on red.”
“What if I owned a hotel, a resort really, and I had an opportunity to sell it for a big payday?”
“Take it.”
“That’s your professional advice?”
“Unless you’re Nina and you built Rickie’s from nothing and you love it like a child, then I’d tell you to hang on for dear life. Money is important, McKenzie, but it isn’t always about money. You’re an old movie guy. What’s the line from Citizen Kane—‘It’s no trick to make a lot of money if all you want is to make a lot of money’? Most people want something more.”
“You’ve become a philosopher in your old age, H.”
“Who are you calling old?”
I was deeply immersed in the book I found on top of the mantel above the fireplace—Rolling Sunset: The History of Redding Castle—when Nina burst through the cabin door.
“I have Dracula wine,” she said. “And sandwiches. BLT for you and smoked turkey for me unless you want to trade.”
“No, no, I’m good.”
Nina set her bag on the small kitchen table and picked up the white plastic tub.
“What’s this” she asked.
“A clue.”
“A clue?”
“Or not.”
“You know, the castle makes its own whipped cream.”
“A clue then.”
Nina stared at me for a moment as if she was waiting for me to explain only the more I thought about it the more silly it sounded, so I didn’t say a word. Nina set the tub on the counter. I pulled up a chair as she distributed the sandwiches and poured the wine from a bottle she had opened before arriving.
“So, anything interesting happen since I saw you last?” Nina asked.
“Same old, same old. How ’bout you?”
“I might have found a way to save the castle or guarantee its destruction. It’s a little unclear.”
“Do tell,” I said.
“I’ve been poring over Jenny’s books. The castle has enormous fixed and variable costs—license fees, insurance premiums, property taxes, wages, payroll taxes, health care, utilities, cable, phone, what else? Food. Liquor. Right now she’s not only generating enough revenue to remain afloat, she’s making a small profit, except it’s not going to be enough. Even during the best of times, Jen told me that winter was a slow period for the castle. Because of last year and the year she’s having now, Jen hasn’t been able to set aside enough money in a reserve account to get through it. It’s possible to secure a line of credit from a bank, but the way things are, the interest rates would be unacceptable.”
“H. B. Sutton said pretty much the same thing about the hospitality business in general,” I said.
“When did you talk to H?”
“About an hour ago. Just so you know—she does not recommend that we invest in the castle.”
“God, no,” Nina said. “We have enough problems keeping our own business afloat.”
I always like it when she says we.
“I’m beginning to think that’s the real reason Jen asked us to come here,” Nina added. “To convince us to invest. But what would we be investing in? It’s not her castle. It belongs to the Sibs. She just works here. Fortunately, she doesn’t need investors.”
“She doesn’t?”
“That’s what I discovered. Honestly, I don’t know why Jenness never saw it herself. She walks past it every day. I looked right at it myself and didn’t see it. Neither did you.”
“See what?”
“She has disposable assets that she can use to finance the castle until the hospitality industry fully recovers.”
“What assets?” I asked.
“The art hanging in the castle’s gallery. The Remington and Whistler and illustrations by Thomas Nast. It didn’t occur to me until I saw an appraisal that Tess had commissioned years ago for insurance purposes. At the time, the Remington painting was valued at four hundred thousand dollars. The pastel by Whistler—half a million. At least fifty thousand for the Nast. Plus the other art hanging on the walls, plus the piano, plus the chandeliers, plus the antiques, plus—the insurance company set the value at just under a million three. That’s the appraised value. Who knows what it would all bring at auction. Probably a lot more.”
“Wow.”
“Wow is right,” Nina said. “The Sibs, Jenness, they all grew up with this stuff. It never occurred to them to look at it as being more than just something their great-great-great-grandfather collected a hundred and fifty years ago. Either that or they just assumed that they were reprints, I don’t know.”
“Which raises the question—if some of the Sibs were willing to sell when their profit would be about $800,000 each, what will their attitude be if they suddenly realize it’s at least a cool million?”
“Exactly the question Jenness asked. She sees the downside in everything these days. On the other hand, selling the Whistler alone, or just taking a loan out using it as collateral, would bring in more than enough for her to keep the castle going until life returns to normal.”
“If the Sibs let her do that.”
“A very big if. McKenzie, how is an empty whipped cream tub a clue?”
“Oh that. You’ll think it’s ridiculous.”
“Try me.”
I did.
“That is ridiculous,” Nina said. “I mean, a honeybee hit man?”
“It’s possible. Bees tried to kill me once.”
“So I’ve been told—how many times?”
“It was a traumatic and emotional experience that I’m still struggling to cope with, thank you for your sympathy.”
“Forget the honeybees for a minute. What would you have done if Eden had been struck by lightning?”
“I would probably have searched for a lightning rod,” I said.
“It’s kind of like cloud-watching, isn’t it? Eventually, we always see what we’re looking for.”
“It’s why innocent people sometimes go to prison.”
“I think it’s time we went home, McKenzie. Don’t you? We’re not accomplishing anything here and I worry about being away from Rickie’s for too long.”
“We could be back in Minneapolis in three hours.”
“No, not yet. I promised I’d give Jenness all of my recommendations for the castle this afternoon; I’ve been keeping notes. Besides, I’d like to see that sunset one more time.”
“Tomorrow then. First thing in the morning?”
Nina nodded and gathered up her sandwich wrapper.
“I need to get back to the castle,” she said. “What are you going to do this afternoon?”
“Drive into Redding and say good-bye to my pal Dee.”
“Meet me on the steps in front of the castle before sunset? If not sooner?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
I took my own sweet time driving into Redding, actually staying within the posted speed limit for a change. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, it was seventy-five degrees in the shade without a cloud in the sky, and the entire world seemed bright and carefree—unless you looked closely. Then you could see the masks some citizens wore against the pandemic and the kid on the corner handing out flyers promoting racism and the dueling campaign signs espousing conflicting political views that allowed for no compromise and you’d realize how deceptive appearances could be.
I parked in front of the Redding city offices. Instead of going inside, though, I sat in the Mustang and sent a text.
“Busy?”
Less than a minute passed before Redding Police Chief Deidre Gardner replied—“30 mins.”
“Java House?”
“C U there.”
I left the Mustang and crossed Main Street. I was disappointed that there was no traffic to stop for me. Two blocks later, I reached the coffeehouse. A woman, both of her hands supporting a cardboard tray containing a half-dozen cardboard coffee cups with plastic lids, was using her shoulder to force the door open. I took hold of the handle and pulled.
“Got it,” I said.
“Thank you,” she answered.
She maneuvered past the sidewalk tables and the patrons sitting at them and turned up the street, her back to me. At no point did she see my face. Yet I had recognized hers instantly. She was the fortysomething woman that Olivia Redding had been conspiring with when Chief Gardner and I walked past the very same coffeehouse the day before. She was now wearing a white blouse, black pencil skirt, and black heels; her auburn hair bobbed up and down on her shoulders like gentle waves beating against the shore.
I decided to follow her; perhaps learn who she was because—well, because that’s what I do.
The woman moved up Main Street and I thought she might be heading for the hospital. A block short of it, though, she hung a right and crossed the street. I was a couple of hundred yards behind her and not too worried that I would lose her in the bustling traffic because there wasn’t any—until she rounded the corner of another one of Redding’s ancient buildings and disappeared from my sight. My first thought was that she had made me. I moved quickly up the sidewalk and crossed the street myself, careful not to break into a full run for fear of attracting attention. I hugged the brown brick wall of the corner and glanced down the street she had taken. She was still moving unhurriedly toward her destination, wherever that was. I continued to follow.
The woman finally stopped. While hugging the cardboard tray to her chest with one hand, she tentatively reached for a door handle with the other. I nearly jogged to her side to help, yet restrained myself. Finally, she opened the door a half foot, caught the edge of it with the toe of her shoe, and used her now free hand to steady the tray. Using her foot and hip, she pushed open the door wide enough to slip inside. I kept moving forward, pretending to window-shop. When I reached her door I slowed considerably.
There were large windows in the front of the building that she had entered; it looked less like an office than a retail store. Inside, I could see the woman, her back to me still, as she distributed the coffee cups to five people who had gathered around her, keeping one for herself. They all appeared younger than she was except for an attractive woman sitting behind a reception desk who was at least a decade older, maybe more, with dusky red hair streaked with silver. When the tray was empty, the woman thrust it at the chest of a young man a full foot taller than she was. He took the tray and grinned and I was left with the impression that next time it was his turn to get the coffee.
The woman disappeared down a narrow corridor; I never did see her face except for the brief glance I had at the coffeehouse. The others quickly followed her, leaving only the receptionist. She saw me standing outside the window and smiled as if she was used to seeing strange men standing outside the window and looking at her. I gave her a nod and continued walking.
Instead of returning to Java House by the way I came, I decided to circle the block so that the receptionist wouldn’t see me again. The last thing I needed was to be accused of stalking even though, technically, that’s exactly what I was doing. As I strolled, I accessed the search app on my cell phone, typing in the name I saw printed on the glass door—Boeve Luxury, a Development Company.
The moment its website popped up on my screen, I remembered where I had seen the name before—a piece printed in the Redding Weekly Bulletin that Barbara Finne had sent to me, the one reporting that Boeve Luxury wanted to demolish Redding Castle and replace it with a tower of condominiums.
I perused the website. The “About Us” link told me that Cassandra Boeve had started her company nearly a decade earlier after spending the previous ten years working for a couple of fairly well-known architectural firms in the Cities, including one that had helped build Target Field for the Minnesota Twins. She was best known for designing luxury homes; there were photographs of three of them located on Lake Anpetuwi alone. She also developed an eighteen-unit apartment building in Willmar and a small retail complex in Marshall, both Minnesota towns less than an hour’s drive from here. Yet she had built nothing that was nearly the size and scope of the project that she had proposed to replace Redding Castle.
Castles on Anpetuwi would have been a big step up for her, I told myself. I bet it broke Boeve’s heart when Tess Redding announced that the castle was no longer for sale; that it would remain in the family. Although I suspected that she was somewhat less than teary-eyed when she learned later that Tess had died.
Oh, I don’t know, my inner voice said. Maybe that’s why she was having coffee with Olivia Redding—she was expressing her condolences.
The page designated “People” showed me photographs of Boeve and the rest of her staff along with their names, official titles, and résumés. The person I labeled as a receptionist was actually a “Principal—Office Administrator.” Her name was Veronica Bickner and her résumé stated that she was a Redding native with a bachelor’s degree in business administration from what was then called Mankato State University but was now known as Minnesota State. Before that she was elected “Prom Queen” of Redding High School Class of 1980.
Principal—does that mean she owns part of the business or that her job is to watch over the children?
Chief Gardner had already arrived at the Java House by the time I returned; she was standing near the door with her hands on her hips and looking around as if she had lost something. She saw me crossing Main Street. This time there was traffic and it actually stopped for me.
“There you are,” she said. “I thought you blew me off.”
“Never.”
“So, where were you? What were you doing?”
“Buy you a cup of coffee, Dee?”
“Evading the question, that sounds promising.”
Chief Gardner and I stepped inside the coffeehouse. The woman who served us must have remembered me from the day before, or at least she remembered my tip, because she was quite solicitous. Which earned her another big tip.
After we were served, the chief and I retired to an open table on the sidewalk where we sat facing the street. The kid, I remembered his name was Brian, was still attempting to pass out flyers on behalf of the Sons of Europa and not having much luck. Given the population of the town, I decided that he had probably already accosted everyone there was to accost.
“So, Jessica, have you broken the case yet?” the chief asked.
“Really? Is that going to be a thing, now?”
“I kinda like it. I thought I’d call LT and tell him you have a new nickname.”
“Please don’t.”
Chief Gardner chuckled at that.
“Do you have anything new to report?” she asked.
I flashed on my theory that Eden Redding was a victim of attempted murder by honeybees and decided that there were some things that, once spoken aloud, a guy simply could never live down; that would follow him forever.
“Nothing at all, Dee,” I said.
“Dammit, I was looking forward to being shown up by you.”
“All right, all right. I just wanted to say good-bye. Nina and I are going home tomorrow.”
“I’ve never met the woman, but she must be a saint being married to you.”
“People keep saying that.”
“Is it true that you were married in the Winter Carnival Ice Palace?”
“I know a guy.”
“Bet you do.”
“Dee, what can you tell me about a woman named Cassandra Boeve?”
“I can tell you that I work for her.”
“Don’t you work for everyone in Redding?” I waved a finger at her. “You can’t give me a ticket; my taxes pay your salary.”
“Except in Boeve’s case, she’s a member of the Redding City Council. She voted to hire me. Very enthusiastically, too.”
“Being on the council—isn’t that a conflict of interest?”
“Why? Because Boeve wants to buy Redding Castle and turn it into condominiums?”
“You know all about that?”
“I read the Weekly Bulletin, too, McKenzie.”
“I followed her from the Java House to her office on Second Avenue.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because she’s the woman that Olivia Redding was having coffee with yesterday when we walked by.”
“I know.”
“If you knew, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you ask, Jessica?”
I ignored the dig.
“Don’t you think that it’s interesting that she and Olivia were meeting?” I asked.
“That a woman who wants to buy some property was talking to a member of the family that owns the property? No, not particularly. Besides”—the chief took a long pull of her coffee—“there could be another reason for the meeting.”
“Such as?”
“You’re a baseball guy. What would you say if I told you that Cassandra Boeve was a switch-hitter; that she batted from both sides of the plate?”
I took a sip of my own coffee while I absorbed that tidbit of information.
“Do you know that for a fact?” I asked.
“I’m a seasoned investigator.”
“Do you think that she and Olivia play on the same team?”
“It’s possible. Why not?”
“For one thing, Olivia is at least twenty years older than Cassandra.”
“Oh, puh-leez, McKenzie! Would you even think that if she were an older man hitting on a younger woman?”
“Probably not.”
“Well, then.”
“It would also explain why Olivia had dressed to look younger.”
“Of course, there’s another, even more reasonable explanation for why they were together.”
“Such as?”
Chief Gardner leaned close to me and lowered her voice. “They’re friends sharing a cup of coffee like, you know, you and me.” She brought an index finger to her lips. “Shh.”
“No, that can’t possibly be it,” I said.
Chief Gardner began to laugh and then I laughed, too. Nina was right about cloud-watching.
“Fucking Nazi!”
The slur started on the corner across the street and seemed to spread through Redding like ripples from a pebble someone tossed into a pond. Everyone within earshot turned to look as an older man dressed the way you’d expect a farmer to be dressed pushed young Brian with both hands, hitting him high in the chest. Brian deliberately put his hands behind his back as if he were afraid he might accidentally retaliate against his attacker. The old man pushed him again. And again. Until Brian tripped and fell backward; his flyers flew from his hand and littered the wide sidewalk.
“Is it starting already?” Chief Gardner asked.
I didn’t understand the question; didn’t have time to answer it, anyway.
The chief rose from the table and dashed across the street—without looking both ways first. I followed.
The old man was hovering above Brian and shouting.
“My father was killed fighting you fucking Nazis,” he said. “You think I’m going to let you take over my town?”
He looked as if he was getting ready to use his boots when Chief Gardner put a heavy hand on his shoulder and pulled him back.
“Mr. Sorteberg,” she said. “Mr. Sorteberg, what are you doing?”
“Look at that, look at that.” Sorteberg pointed at an image printed on Brian’s flyers. “What they call a sonderrad. It’s a symbol of the fucking Nazis, just one step below the swastika.”
“Stop saying that,” Brian said.
He scrambled up from the sidewalk. I could have helped him, yet I didn’t. Once standing, he clenched his fists. Chief Gardner moved between him and the old man.
“We’re not Nazis,” Brian said. “The Sons of Europa support strong white families, that’s all. We’re trying to protect white people.”
“Listen to this shit,” Sorteberg said.
Brian pointed at him.
“He should be arrested,” he said. “He should be arrested for assault.”
“You started it,” Sorteberg said.
“That’s a lie.”
“Stop it, both of you,” Chief Gardner said.
“You saw what he did. He pushed me, but I never pushed him back, I never raised my hand, you saw.”
“Brian…”
“Brian? Brian? He’s Mr. Sorteberg, but I’m Brian?”
“Mr. Hermes, then.”
“Who’s side are you on?” Sorteberg asked. “Calling this Nazi mister? You were appointed by the city and you can be un-appointed.”
“Stop it.”
“You don’t tell me—”
Chief Gardner raised her hand like she was drawing a gun and pointed a finger in the old man’s face.
“I said stop it,” she said.
She turned to face Brian Hermes.
“And you…” she said.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Hermes said.
I recited from memory—“Whoever commits an act knowing or having reasonable grounds to know that it will, or will tend to, alarm, anger or disturb others or provoke an assault or breach of the peace, is guilty of disorderly conduct, which is a misdemeanor.”
They all stared at me.
“Ninety days or a thousand-dollar fine or both,” I added.
“That’s crazy,” Hermes said.
“I can arrest you both and let a judge decide what’s crazy,” Chief Gardner said. “Or I can let you both go your separate ways.”
“He attacked me,” Hermes said.
“Think about it—do your people want this to happen?”
“He doesn’t have any people,” Sorteberg said. “His family’s disowned him.”
“Shut up,” Hermes said.
“You broke your mother’s heart.”
“Shut up, shut up.”
“Get out of here—Mr. Sorteberg,” Chief Gardner said.
Sorteberg snorted, actually snorted.
“I’ll remember this, Chief,” he said.
He spun on his heels and walked away. Chief Gardner turned to face Hermes. His eyes were wet and shiny.
What Sorteberg said about his mother must have really hurt, my inner voice decided.
“Mr. Hermes,” the chief said. “You, too.”
Hermes nodded.
“And pick up your damned flyers.”
Chief Gardner and I turned to recross Main Street. This time the traffic didn’t stop. An SUV nearly hit us; Chief Gardner was both surprised and angry yet did not voice her feelings.
“You said, ‘Is it starting already?’” I reminded her.
“Did I?”
“When you saw Sorteberg shoving the kid.”
“McKenzie, I have this ache deep in my stomach that won’t go away. It tells me that this is going to get much worse before it gets better, assuming it ever gets better. The Sons claim that they have seven hundred followers scattered over fifteen states; that’s the number they gave out. I bet six hundred and eighty are from outside Redding who don’t give a damn about Redding or the people who live here. The twenty who do live here—we’re going to have our own little race riot, sure as hell. It’s just a matter of time.”
By then we had reached the Java House. The owner had already cleared our half-finished coffees off the sidewalk table.
“So, tell me, Dee,” I said. “Why exactly did you leave Minneapolis again?”